Issue 9

Autumn 2013


The Ball

after Rilke

How we small ones bunched together
on the playing fields of the city.
Back then we were giddy, still unsure;
our voices crammed the sky

and truth seemed something left behind
in silences. Take joy, being wordless:
shared and catching hold, it strengthened.
All the goings-on scared us –

passing cars, their measured steel,
house-high blankness of walls. We couldn't say
where are they, the real things?

The arc of our flying ball was real.
We’d know and raise our hands; the way
I remember it, a ball is always falling.



Beverley Nadin